William Blake
William Blake
William Blakewas an English poet, painter, and printmaker. Largely unrecognised during his lifetime, Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age. His prophetic works have been said to form "what is in proportion to its merits the least read body of poetry in the English language". His visual artistry led one contemporary art critic to proclaim him "far and away the greatest artist Britain has ever produced". In...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPhilosopher
Date of Birth28 November 1757
Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, / The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green.
When the voices of children are heard on the green, / And laughing is heard on the hill, / My heart is at rest within my breast, / And everything else is still.
He who shall teach the child to doubt / The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
Children of the future AgeReading this indignant page,Know that in a former timeLove! sweet Love! was thought a crime.
And I made a rural pen, / And I stained the water clear, / And I wrote my happy songs / Every child may joy to hear.
Children of the future age Reading this indignant page Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a crime
How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring?
Then the Parson might preach, & drink, & sing, And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring; And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church, Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.
When the voices of children are heard on the greenAnd laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breastAnd everything else is still.
He who shall teach the child to doubtThe rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
My Brother starv'd between two Walls,His Children's Cry my Soul appalls
The child's toys and the old man's reasons are the fruits of two seasons.
But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O! my soul is white; White as an angel is the English child, But I am black as if bereaved of light.